Found a rock
Cool as hell
Pulls me under
A magic spell
Heft in hand
Delight sky-rockets
Brush it clean
Fill my pockets
Pocket rattle
Waistband weighted
Rock-nerd-mode
Activated
Quirky, dull
Or sparkling jewel
Can’t deny it
Rocks are cool
I've tasted her liquid, from her heart; Meadowlark
Warm red taste of lavender meringue;
I held her hand;
Meadowlark
Embraced her waistband hips;
Touched her lips;
Made a wish;
We kissed
Meadowlark
Consummated betrothed wedding night so Endearing we're husband and wife;
In the light in the dark
Meadowlark
11/21/25
Written by James Edward Lee Sr
Christy did not know how she was going to fix the problem.
Her sister Carol, had confided in her.
Christy knew she could not let Carol return out of state with her abusive husband.
The abuser was glaring at her when Christy came into the living room.
“Where is Carol?” he demanded. He was impatient to get going.
On automatic pilot, Christy said “DAD!”
Her father was lying on the floor watching TV
DAD!
He looked at her this time.
“Steve has been beating Carol.”
Without a word the sisters’ father got up off the floor.
Walked to Steve, spun him, and walked him out the door.
He had a hold of his neck.
He put his other hand on his waistband and plunked him over the porch railing.
It was about a fourteen foot drop.
Without another word Dad returned to his place on the floor.
Hey I'm not obsessed, that's not evil..
your mind is just full of evil that you can't see
beauty in handmade..
Don't criticize, just look at your woman's waist
without a waistband that's a waste of waist..
Buy her "Waist Bead", Let her glow while you stare with sensation...
Let the vim of the waist bead vanquish the spirit of dysfunction and make you a Gladiator in the house of Pontus..
Let you enter the arena and battle while holding your lance like Bacca..
Let the sound of the waist bead summon the spirit of satisfaction...
Let you be bewitched by the waist bead and have a well module immune system
The thing about chiggers:
I’m glad they’re not bigger.
They’ll make you go dancing
Like A. A. Milne’s Tigger.
Avoid ‘em with vigor!
When they pull the trigger,
Get under your waistband,
You may need a jigger.
Of whiskey! Of whiskey!
You’ve gotta ask right,
'Cuz chiggers are red
And jiggers are white.
O, chigger! O, jigger!
They both like to bite.
The former’s a flea;
The latter’s a mite.
My cousin’s just earned his degree
He majored in fartology
Now he can impart
What foods make me fart
He’s obsessed by scatology
I confessed that beans give me wind
(It matters not if fresh or tinned)
And onions and sprouts
In any amounts
cause farting that I can’t rescind
The wind I produce is quite drastic
as medics say my colon’s spastic
my poor tummy swells
I release foul smells
I’m thankful my waistband ‘s elastic
FICTIONAL POEM FOR FART-TASTIC CONTEST
Sponsored by Chantelle Anne Cooke
09/15/21
Leftover Willpower
David J Walker
I know
I know
What I said last night
After the last bite of
Turkey and dressing and
Cranberry sauce and
Pumpkin pie
That I
Would never eat again
At least, not this much
So much
That it stretched my belly to
New dimensions forcing me to
Unbutton the waistband of my
Khaki dress slacks
I know
I know
How good it all was
and yet how
Bad for me at the same time
And how I fell asleep in the
Recliner watching reruns of
“It’s a Wonderful Life”
And the morning after
When I cannot think of putting
Any more food in my mouth
Somewhere in the back of my head
Hatches a plan for later
Sliders
Maybe one
Reheated roll with
Turkey and dressing and
Cranberry sauce
Small Sliders
Maybe two
Just two
No more
But surely not three
Would you think it profane to
Curse the names of every Pilgrim
Who landed on Plymouth Rock?
The bane of my weakening
Leftover willpower
IT’s ALL THEIR FAULT!
billboard sign
winks at me
eat here now
temptation
hungry bear
buffet line
plate piled high
ten pounds plus
waistband stretch
Reality check... I’ve noticed the
Elastic waistband has
Started to get even tighter on my wife's pants ....
Only I daren't suggest she gives up candy -
Lets just say if she doesn't get her daily ‘ fix’ she turns
Uglier than the incredible hulk!
Take it from me when she gets PMT
It’s like walking on eggshells, so yet again my
Only option is to say
Nothing...
So my resolution is to survive her mood swings for another year!
Resolutions contest Judged 02/16/20
FICTION POEM FOR CONTEST
02/06/20
billboard sign
winks at me
eat here now
temptation
hungry bear
buffet line
plate piled high
ten pounds plus
waistband stretch
elastic waistband
society norms dead
wearing pajamas at Starbucks
no one stares
or cares
that I brought my own blanket too
as it is sometimes cold in here
a big change from home where
I will go to nap in an hour
05/09/2018
a sea of salt sand
populates swimsuit waistband
the oceans wet itch
She is Two Saints:
Your feet make you happy
when they bring you to the garden
where you are merry.
You walk among red roses,
and take their scent in.
Your storied days and busy nights,
we'll have one together -
turn off the lights.
I know how to use my hand,
under your waistband.
We are in that rose garden
and together it is right.
I kiss you deeply,
you sigh from your nose.
I with my hand under your clothes.
You are more than one; you are two saints.
You come so hard you nearly faint.
There are times when the body
is as numinous as words – Robert Hass
Others, however, when it declares forcefully
its sheer bodiness;
your stomach tightens the waistband
of jeans you bought just last month
in the style of a ‘boyfriend’ you don’t have,
and no jumper’s baggy enough.
Physicality forces outwards, running.
Hills are the quickest route to redemption.
You recall Gethsemane as muscles flame,
fuelled by guilty glycogen from last night’s binge.
The world contracts corporeally.
Each stride increases the laxative effect
of emotions you don’t pretend to understand.
And yet there’s no catharsis
and escape from the self is absurd.
It’s the process of translation,
ritual purging through corporeal philosophy,
pounding the Will with rhythmic strides.
Forget those cloud-dwelling thinkers,
living in dualist minds of ascetic detachment.
Ask any runner: there is no destination.
It’s the shift, the constant becoming.
We’re all just atoms and stardust.
With lifeless eyes he forms the south side
hand sign
represent his neighborhood is all he know
No remorse for his actions banging on the
other side
Dope in his pocket pistol in his waistband
pulling aiming firing shots with his left
hand
Hot steel spiralling out the barrel of the
gun empty shells and bodies hitting the
pavement
Elevating the crime rate he celebrates with
his homies back on the south side
Lines of cocaine being snorted off the
stomachs of sluts with bloodshot eyes
they scream southside
North Siders come through gunning
automatic weapons being fired screams
of whores echo through the night unable
to return fire south siders lay dying with
lifeless eyes they form the south side
hand sign
written by Keith Edward Baucum aka The
Brown Philosopher aka The Green Poet
aka Red Seven
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